A Greater Intelligence
by TrapperII
Summary: Oneshot. Takes place after the episode All Things. MSR. Everything seemed clear to her again: his eyelashes fluttering lushly against his cheeks; the shifting colors in his eyes; the throb of his artery beneath her fingertips.


**Author's Notes:** This story takes place after the Season 7 episode _All Things_. Let me know what you think.

Many thanks to d'Anima for her feedback on this story!

* * *

She shot to an upright position in the darkness, heart thrumming into her ribs, fingers sliding ineffectually across cold cushions. Recognizing the familiar groan of leather beneath her legs and the scratchy texture of the blanket under her chin, she relaxed back into the couch. The fish tank gurgled reassuringly at her feet. Two mugs rested side by side on the coffee table.

_Mulder_. She stood quickly at the thought, cold wood sending chills up uncertain legs as her feet made contact with the floor. She dropped the wool blanket to the couch with a reluctant shiver. When had she fallen asleep? There were things she needed him to understand, had meant to tell him, and she had fallen asleep, lulled deliciously by his voice and two cups of chamomile tea. But her heart was brimming. Set to explode. And she sensed ... well ... she sensed.

Her pantyhose skated across the slippery floorboards as she navigated the three steps to his room and edged herself through the half-open door. He was sprawled across the bed, his bare chest partially visible, one sculpted calf protruding from the blankets. Her lips quirked into a fond smile as she moved towards him. Mulder would definitely steal the covers. His features, though always sensitive, were even softer in repose. Soft, but very real. A well-muscled arm across his chest. Downy hairs and scattered freckles. Solid. The sheets rose and fell gently with each rhythmic breath. She didn't want to disturb this peace, but she wanted to touch him. And she needed to hear him. Her toes curled into the still-plush gray carpet.

"Mulder." Her whisper sounded raw, foreign, in the stillness of the room. His face twitched, and he curled towards her, rolling onto his side, one hand hanging limply over the side of the bed. She caressed his palm lightly with her finger. "Mulder."

A sharp inhalation of breath, and his head jerked, eyes blinking sluggishly before his gaze met hers. Green smoke and haze. His hand closed around her finger where it still rested on his outstretched palm. Warm and safe. His lips twitched into a lazy smile. "I'd say 'g'morning, Scully,' but it still seems pretty dark in here."

His groggy tone scratched at something deep inside her. "It's 3:11," she replied softly, nodding her head at the red glow of his alarm clock. She lingered intently on the numbers, watching the 11 flash to a 12 before she turned back to him. He was fully awake now, head tilted on the pillow, eyes taking on the peculiar focus he reserved for her. Questioning.

She rolled her entire hand into the warm cocoon of his grip. Her eyes fixed on a spot just above his head. "There is a greater intelligence in all things,'" she murmured without preamble. He stroked her knuckles once, twice, with the pad of his thumb. "Do you believe it, Mulder?"

His mind sampled the words, tasting, considering, small bites—the process revealed to her by the faint play of moonlight over his face. A beat of silence, then he tugged her towards him, guiding her firmly to the edge of the mattress as he rose to a sitting position, sheets sliding to pool around his waist. She sat on the edge of the bed, could feel his foot flexing under the sheet next to her. She formed her lips around his name in vague protest, but he pressed a finger to her mouth. "First things first," he whispered.

He positioned their joined hands gently on the bed, leaving a stamp of warmth behind as his fingers left hers. He extricated his long legs from the sheets, dropped his feet to the floor, stretched his arms forward with interlocked fingers to crack his elbows, affording her a full view of sinew and spine. As he stood and padded toward the closet, the loose legs of his pajama bottoms fell back down to brush the tops of his feet.

He rummaged around on a shelf then returned to her, offering two folded articles of clothing. She glanced from them to him, then to the stiffly tailored jacket and skirt she still wore. Comprehension dawned. She took them fully from his grip and moved to the foot of the bed, began to shrug off her jacket. He stretched back out on the bed, ankles crossed and hands behind his head, meeting her gaze once before he closed his eyes: privacy behind a curtain of flesh.

She unzipped her skirt and shimmied it down her hips, breathed deeply, feeling the outward thrust of her ribcage as the air coursed into her lungs. She shed the pantyhose next, her skin enlivened as the constricting garment zipped down her thighs and calves. Her ankles popped as she toed the delicate fabric into a pile on the floor. Feet stepped into the pair of pajama bottoms he had offered, and hands cinched the drawstring tightly. At their tightest, the thin cotton pants hung low on her hips and gathered in massive folds at her feet. She pulled the pale green sweater over her head with a crackle of static, leaving the hair on her arms standing on end, electricity mixing with the cool air of the room and the hum of the blood in her veins.

She glanced over at Mulder's still form. She would have thought he was asleep if not for the intent tilt of his head, the concentration in his bearing. And he was holding his breath. She smiled faintly. With a quick snap, she unhooked her bra and tossed it on top of the pantyhose, pulling the t-shirt over her head to billow lightly and rest against her thighs—a soft caress of fabric softener and Mulder. He opened his eyes when her weight shifted the mattress underneath him. She sat cross-legged beside him, grabbed his spare pillow and held it in her lap. He rolled onto his side to face her, propping his head on the heel of his hand.

"A greater intelligence ..." he began, voice trailing into the expectant silence between them. "I suppose you could say I believe in fate."

She pursed her lips, unsurprised by his facile response. "Not fate, Mulder. Not a cosmic force. I'm talking about an intelligence. Some sort of sentient being that not only guides our lives, but understands us. And, at some level ... well ... _cares_ about us. About me." A pause. "About you," she finished quietly.

He looked at his hand where it flexed and relaxed and then flexed again on the mattress in front of him. He held it in front of his face, watching the delicate bones shift under the skin. "Scully, I don't know ..." He stopped and scrutinized his hand again.

She reached out and took his fingers, stilling their agitation with a gentle squeeze, bringing them to rest on her ankle—a bridge between them. "Mulder, why don't you believe in God?"

"Why do you?" he countered softly, eyes locked with hers.

"Empirical evidence."

He quirked his eyebrow at the unexpected remark, searching for an explanation.

A sardonic chuckle escaped her lips, and she dropped her chin, hair tumbling in front of her face. "I always had faith, or belief, or whatever you want to call it. Maybe it was just my upbringing. But then I began to push it away." She held her palm out stiffly in a gesture of dismissal. "It didn't seem to mesh with the scientific belief system I was adopting. But now ... I've seen too much that suggests He _does_ exist. How can I deny the evidence when I can't refute it?"

He smiled at that. She was talking about more than God. He rubbed his thumb gently across the smooth rise of her ankle. "And the ship in Africa? A vision in a Buddhist temple? They don't sound like your God to me."

Her eyes shifted perceptibly, focus lost in contemplation. Her low alto hummed in the air. "I think those do more to reaffirm my belief in God than not." She paused a moment, considering. "'Nothing happens in contradiction to nature, only in contradiction to our understanding of it.' Maybe God is the grand scientist, manipulating matter and physics with a sophistication beyond anything man can envision. And if He is a god of all things, how could one faith comprehend Him?" She closed her eyes as his fingers traveled up her calf then back down to caress the delicate bones of her foot. "Maybe there is just _truth_. And over the centuries we have snatched at pieces of that truth, created a distorted picture. Maybe we need to reassemble the puzzle before we can begin to understand."

"So, does this mean no more going to confession?" he joked softly.

"No," she smiled down at him, foot twitching as he stroked a ticklish spot. "No, it doesn't. I think God appreciates my form of worship." She nudged his shoulder. "But Mulder, you still haven't answered my question."

His expression sobered, and he paused a moment before continuing. "I don't know that I've formed a concept of God. Not a caring one at least. Bitterness and doubt are the feelings I've associated with the possibility of a supreme being for as long as I can remember." She nodded, urging him onward. "But ... there _have_ been times when I've needed to believe in something. When it was all I could do not to ..." he shrugged uncomfortably "... fall to my knees."

"When?" she asked quietly. He paused, looked in her eyes. Her expression was patient yet pleading. _Tell me when_.

His gaze locked on a spot on her ankle, seemingly mesmerized by the circling movements of his thumb. He swallowed, began haltingly, voice barely a murmur. "Um, the LaPierre case, when we ... found the bodies. All the children. I had to ... there had to be something _more_ than just this ... And then later, when ... Samantha. I heard ... and there were so many ... they were smiling." His emotions bubbled to the surface, and his voice took on a gravelly texture. His hand stopped its circling, resting warmly on her shin, betraying a slight tremor. "One night when you were in the hospital. You were asleep ... peaceful. But still very sick. From the cancer. And I couldn't save you. Someone _had_ to care. Because I was ..." His throat was dry and constricted, holding back the words.

She reached out and ran her fingers lightly through the hair above his ear. He sat up then, taking her hand and pressing it to his cheek. "I do have trouble comprehending God, Scully. Especially a loving one. I envy you that conviction. But maybe I don't need it." He rubbed her knuckles against the rough stubble of his jaw. "I hear you speak of God ..." He broke off. "Maybe I'm not meant to know for myself. Maybe I'll never have that assurance." He focused on her with clear, honest eyes. "But I see these things reflected in you. For me, that's enough. Right now, that's enough."

She cleared her throat, took a breath, ignored the heat seeping to her core and the warning signals conditioned by seven years of inhibition. His fingers slid to her elbow and she dropped her hand to the base of his neck, looked directly into his eyes, her tears forming and courage rising. "I learned something today. Something important I wanted to tell you." She paused as her voice trembled. "Everything leads me to you, Mulder. You are my right choice. The only question that remains is: where does the path go for us?"

He smiled, illuminating his face, the entire room, with emotion. Happiness. And everything seemed clear to her again: his eyelashes fluttering lushly against his cheeks; the shifting colors in his eyes; the throb of his artery beneath her fingertips. An age-old rhythm that resonated inside and around them.

This was the way it was meant to be.

* * *

The end.


End file.
